


Bright Red Ribbons

by deadheads (orphan_account)



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: F/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-12 09:05:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15336495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/deadheads
Summary: When your missing childhood friend's bones wash up on the bank of the Kenduskeag river, tied into a parcel with a bright red ribbon, you return to Derry to attend her funeral and to find answers. Little do you know who, or rather what is lying in wait for you.





	1. Celia

Freezing. 

It’s absolutely fucking freezing. 

Even the sky seems to be frozen over, clouds almost as icy and slick as the black, winding roads you’ve been driving down for the last twelve hours. Your fingers are pale, almost blue from the cold and they grip the wheel of your car hard. 

You hate every mile, every minute, of this drive. 

The drive back to the one place you never thought you’d have to see again. 

Derry.

A small town with no small-town charm.

It’s an empty place, bleak and entirely unpleasant. Rotting wooden houses sit on crumbling foundations, the local parks are unkempt and full of syringe ridden bushes, their lawns littered with shattered glass and empty beer cans. 

The people who live there have given up. 

The mayor has retreated into his whiskey bottle, the police into the local whorehouse, and the upstanding citizens that once filled happy homes fled years ago. There are no more white picket fences in Derry. No more town cheer. 

Even when you were younger and moved here for your Mom’s new job, the 23rd Chief of Police, you could see the cracks beginning to form in the towns seemingly charming core.

Your Mom had tried to fix it, tried until it nearly broke her. 

For ten long years, she tried to patch up the holes of a slowly crumbling community. 

It was an uphill battle, a battle that she ultimately lost.

When your family packed up and drove away on a gloomy December morning, defeated by Derry, you swore to yourself that you’d never come back. 

See, your reasons for hating Derry were plain. 

It was the place your parents turned on one another. 

The place where Mom and Dad started sleeping in separate beds. 

The place where your childhood friends seemed to vanish. 

The place where your Mother tried, tried her hardest, to bring them back home. 

She never did though, bring them back, that is. 

It was the place where a boy first broke your heart. 

It was the place where you stopped feeling brave.

The place where the world, the real world, reared its ugly head and revealed the grim nature of life. 

It was the place where your childhood ended.

Derry was where everything went wrong. 

“Fuck,” you sniffle, wiping away your tears with the back of your frigid palm. There’s no use in crying but you can’t seem to stem the stream of fat tears that roll down your flushed cheeks. 

If only you’d never seen the story on the news, the story that put this godforsaken road trip into motion, you could have kept pretending that Derry was just a bad place, from a bad dream. 

But it wasn’t, and when they found her bones you had to stop trying to forget.

Celia Myers.

That was her name, Celia Myers.

Her little bones had washed up just outside Derry’s township limits, on the muddy bank of the Kenduskeag river. They had been found wrapped up in a filthy floral washcloth and tied shut with a conspicuously bright red ribbon. 

If there was any doubt of foul play before, it was gone now.  
The way the grim parcel had almost been hand-delivered into the laps of police had caused a stir on all your local TV news stations. 

Her name and photo kept flashing across your screen, no matter what channel you switched to. It was a waking nightmare and you’d been unable to stop shaking for an hour after the story’s segment ended.

Your Mother, when you had called her in Phoenix to tell her the news, spoke to you softly, gently as though she thought this incident was the one that might finally break you. 

Little did she know, you’d been broken a long time ago.

Broken, along with Celia Myers and Jake Aberdeen and Faith Garcia and all the other childhood friends that had been spirited away. 

You never quite recovered from having every meaningful bond of your youth broken so abruptly, so brutally. 

For years, you suspected something was bubbling away under the seemingly kept and domestic surface of the Derry of your youth. 

Something vile that had eaten its way into Derry’s core and, like the Pied Piper, bewitched your friends and lead them astray, never to be seen again. 

Something depraved had hooked its claws deep into the children of Derry.

So, after a week of tossing and turning in bed, of sleepless nights, of breaking wine glasses and dropping plates of hot food at your dead-end waitressing job, you decided you needed to go back. 

You needed to see for yourself. 

You had to be at Celia’s funeral, had to see the casket rattling with her tiny bones lowered into the frozen earth. 

You needed to bear witness to the whole appalling event and, more than anything else, you needed to know the truth.

Celia Myers. Jake Aberdeen. Faith Garcia.

All of them and more, you now knew, had met the same fate and you were going to find out exactly what fate that was.

Or rather, who it was.

You were going to find out and then you were going to kill the fucker that did it.

 


	2. The Drain

 

It’s in the early hours of that Saturday morning, around 2 am when you pull into the only motel in Derry township.

The block of for-rent rooms are a single story, their wooden exteriors battered and grimy, the business’s age clearly showing. The car-park is nearly empty, with only a couple of beaten up cars parked in it. There is no light coming from any of the rooms, leaving you and your car in near pitch black, save for the flickering glow of a neon red “OPEN” sign above the main office’s door.

To say the place is creepy would be an understatement.

You pull into a vacant parking spot and turn off your lights.

Your breaths come out in little puffs of hot air that swirl between you and your windshield. For a couple of long moments, you just sit there, silent and still.

You can hardly believe you’re here again.

The drive into Derry, down Main St and up Route 2 to the motel, was dismal. The town was empty, devoid of life until you pulled past the bar on the corner of Main and Jackson and spotted a crowd of people outside watching as two very drunk men brawled on the sidewalk.

You could smell the vomit and spilled booze from the driver’s seat.

Snapping back the present, you turn off your car’s engine and pull the keys out, listening as the hum of the motor dies down. Then, when all you can hear is your own breathing and the wind blowing outside, you open the door and step out into the biting cold.

You wrap your coat around yourself tightly and open the back door of your car, pulling out your brown leather duffel bag and sling it over your shoulder. You walk quickly to the door of the main office and knock, peering inside the window to try and catch a glimpse of the owner.

A small, elderly woman stumbles out of the room behind the counter and presses a button on the desk, opening the lock with a small click, which allows you to slip inside and away from the biting cold.

You give her a grateful smile and are met with a cold stare and wrinkled lips pressed into a firm line.

“We close at 12,” she states, voice raspy, her red painted fingernails tapping impatiently on the doily covered counter that sits between you, “Most decent folks are in bed by now, y’know.”

You shift on your feet anxiously and give a polite nod, digging into your pocket for your wallet.

“I didn’t realize, Ma’am,” you say, pulling out a crisp hundred dollar bill from your leather wallet and placing it on the gaudy countertop, “I just need a room for one for the next couple of nights. I’m here for Celia Myer’s funeral.”

At that, her face seems to soften.

“Oh dear,” she says, her tone much more gentle, “Oh dear, I’m sorry. Truly. There have just been so many reporters and journalists and cameras in town the last couple of days, all here to make a story out of that poor child’s misfortune. It makes me sick. I thought maybe you were one of them.”

You shake your head, and pull out your license, handing it over to her.

“What’s your relation? To Celia?” she asks, a flicker of curiosity sparking behind her blue eyes as she takes the money and your ID.

“She was a friend,” you reply curtly, “I used to live here when I was a kid, my Mom was Chief of Police a while back. YMN, I’m YMN’s daughter.”

“Oh, my!” she exclaims, feigning excitement at the realization, her lip curling up into a smile of faux warmth, “YN, I can’t believe it’s you. You’ve grown into such a beautiful young woman.”

You give her a small smile and nod, wanting nothing more than to turn around, get back in your car and drive away from this place. You can hardly stand the forced small talk and, the smell of mothballs and mildew isn’t helping.

The woman suddenly drops her smile, turning around and pulling a set of red keys off of the hooks behind her, placing a key labeled number 13 on the counter in front of you.

“Room 13. No smoking inside, no guests, no animals and if you break something, you pay,” she says, handing back your ID, “You have a nice night now, YN.”

With that, you smile weakly, pick your things up from the counter and walk back out of the office and into the brunt of the winter air.

It doesn’t take long to find your room - it’s the furthest one from the office, and as you open the flimsy door the stench of old carpet and bad plumbing hits you. With your nose screwed up, you dump your duffel bag on the floor by the tiny bed and make a beeline for the bathroom.

Your hands are shaking as you turn on the hot water in the shower and quickly peel off your clothes, almost as though they are the cause of your discomfort.

If only it were that simple.

As soon as you step under the stream of the shower, the warm water washes away most of your anxiety, at least on the surface level. You stay under the faucet for what feels like hours.

Standing there, forehead pressed against the cool tiled wall, you try to understand why it was exactly you quit your job and drove twelve hours to end up in a place that makes your skin crawl.

“Because I’m fucking stupid,” you mutter to no-one, “A stupid, lonely little girl who can’t stay away from tragedy, apparently.”

After a long while, the water begins to run lukewarm, which you try your best to ignore. Then it starts to run cold.

You sigh and turn the oily handles clockwise until the spray of droplets finally stops.

You stand there like that, naked and freezing cold, watching as the last of the icy water swirls on the grimy yellow shower tiles beneath your feet and down the drain with a hissing sound.

Somehow, the view frightens you.

A shiver runs through your soaking wet body.

Great, now you’ve creeped yourself out.

Hastily, you step out of the shower cubicle, nearly slipping on the greasy tiled floor on your way out. You pat dry your sensitive gooseflesh with the provided towel, purposefully ignoring the pink stains splattered on one end of the otherwise clean linen as you dry your hair.

It’s only when you wrap the towel around your body and turn to look at your reflection in the bathrooms mirror that you hear it.

“Help me,” says a tiny voice, so far away and so soft you can barely tell where it’s coming from, “Help me, please.”

Your heart leaps into your throat and you swivel around, eyes darting frantically around the bathroom, looking for where the sound came from.

“Y/N,” it calls, like a scared little girl, the sound somehow louder now, “Y/N, I’m down here. Down here, Y/N.”

Your whole body begins shaking, eyes wide and mouth parted as ragged breaths escape your trembling lips.

It’s coming from the shower, you realize.

From the drain.

You can’t move, can’t speak, staring at the grimy hole in the floor in front of you.

“Where have you been?” the voice calls, trailing off into a soft sob.

“T-This isn’t f-fu-funny,” you splutter, face drained of color and heart thundering, “I’m guh-gonna call the c-cops!”

You reach for the bathroom door handle and stop dead in your tracks when it speaks again.

“It’s me, Celia,” the voice is sobbing now, crying out to you, “Don’t you remember me? Don’t you remember your b-best friend, YN?”

Your knees are wobbling so badly you think you might fall and you can’t even choke out a sound. You’re frozen, standing and staring as the disembodied voice of a dead girl calls out to you from a motel shower drain.

The fluorescent lights above you flicker and suddenly, the air around you grows cold and still. The voice from the drain has been washed away.

Fuck.

Something big has suddenly appeared behind you, as though out of a puff of hot air.

You know It has because you can feel It's breath at the nape of your neck.

It, whatever It is, fills the room with the scent of animal shit and dried blood and cotton candy.

It’s looming shadow is cast over you from behind, It's silhouette falling menacingly over the shower tiles in front of you.

It looks like a man.

Your heart stutters.

“What about me, kiddo?” the presence coos, making you jump, a soft squeal slipping from your lips.

It's clearly a man's voice, sickly sweet and smelling of popcorn and rotten flesh.

“Dontcha remember your ol’ friend Pennywise?”

When you open your mouth, all that comes out is a strangled "Help".

You feel like you're going to die from fear.

“Oh, I think you might’ve forgotten,” It giggles, the sound of bells jingling behind you making your body jerk in terror, “You forgot all about me, didn’t you, little one?”

You clench and unclench your fists futilely, trying your hardest to make yourself run, make yourself scream, do anything but just fucking stand there and tremble.

Your lips move, trying to blubber out a plea for your life but no sound will come out.

It touches the back of your neck gently, poking at it, and your eyes blur with fat tears.

“Don’t worry,” It says, running what feels like a gloved finger from the top of your stiff neck, down between your shoulder blades until it reaches the edge of the soaking wet towel wrapped around you, resting it there as a thinly veiled threat, “Most people don’t, y’know. Most people forget all about Pennywise. But you, I thought you would remember. Celia thought you would, too.”

With those awful words, your body finds the strength to spin around and stumble backward, away from whatever monster is standing behind you. In your panic, you fall back into the wet shower cubicle. Your head smacks against the tiles hard as you land, making you see stars.

After what feels like hours, you force your eyes open and shake your head from side to side to try and clear your bleary vision and face your imminent doom. 

When you finally manage to focus again all you can see is an empty bathroom.

Empty.

Nothing.

There was nothing.

There was nothing there, nothing where something clearly once was and you can’t fucking believe your eyes.

You stumble to your feet, searching frantically around the room for your phantom tormentor but there's nothing but dirty tiles and a puddle of your own piss where you once stood. You pissed yourself because something was there, something was there and now it’s not and it made you piss yourself.

”H-holy fuck,” you splutter, dizzy.

You scramble out of the bathroom and slam the door shut behind you, making sure to lock it.

Wobbling, you walk back into the middle of your motel room before finally collapsing onto the floor into a sobbing heap.

“No, no, no, no,” you cry, babbling and rocking back and forth, trying to soothe yourself, “What the fuck? What the fuck was that?!”

And just like that, in just a couple of moments, something has changed inside you and they begin to flow back.

Memories.

Hundreds of them, thousands maybe.

Memories that you had locked away a long, long time ago. Ones you had shoved so far into the recesses of your mind that they almost ceased to exist.

They’re so clear you wonder how you ever forgot them.

They flit through your mind's eye. Some have chunks of information missing, some are impossibly muddled and mixed with others, making them impossible to comprehend.

Others are more clear.

 

_The balloons._

_Splashing in muddy puddles in matching bright red galoshes with Celia in tow, chasing the balloons that had floated past the edge of Bassey Park._

_Chasing them along the canal._

_Into the barrens._

_You, insisting that you chase them even further, despite Celia’s complaints._

_Then, the clown._

_Standing ahead of you, holding the balloons._

_Smiling at you._

_It promises of merry go rounds and ice cream and more balloons than you could ever imagine._

_“Will they float?” Celia asks, sweetly._

_“Oh yes,” purrs the clown, “They all float down here.”_

_Into the drain._

_Taking both of your tiny hands in It's huge gloved ones._

_It guides you both into the drain._

_Right into the drain._

 

It all becomes too much for you and you feel like you might pass out right there on the filthy carpet.

With shaking limbs, you pull yourself onto the edge of your musty bed. It squeals loudly as you settle onto it.

You peel the towel from your body and toss it as far away from you as possible, landing with a wet splat against the rooms mini-fridge.

Slowly, with pruned fingers, you lift the bed’s covers and slide underneath them, pulling the stiff sheets all the way up to your nose. You lay on your back in the now damp bed, staring up at the peeling paint on the ceiling, shellshocked.

_“Dontcha remember your ol’ friend Pennywise?”_

Pennywise.

_“Most people don’t, y’know. Most people forget all about Pennywise. But you, I thought you would remember.”_

You use the sheets to muffle a sob.

Pennywise.

“Pennywise,” you mumble, testing how the word feels as it rolls off of your tongue.

You wipe your face dry of snot and tears on your pillowcase.

The room is so quiet now, so still.

It's almost as though nothing had happened at all. 

You sit there like that for hours, almost until dawn. Staring at the ceiling, crying into your snotty pillowcase.

It's as though the universe must pity you when you begin to feel tired. The promise of an escape, of rest, is so alluring, that despite yourself, the Sandman begins to lull you into his warm embrace.

It doesn't take long to succumb, and just as the sun begins to rise over Derry, you slip into a deep slumber.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first fanfic in a long, long time so any comments & criticism are welcome!
> 
> The plot thickens.


End file.
